Midnight is a Lonely Place

If he had returned to Rome, to the house of his father, would things have been different? Had he been foolish to accept the gift of land in the first colonia in Claudius’s province of Britain? Colonia Claudia Victricensis which had been Camulodunum. He chewed thoughtfully at a dried fig. The land had brought him wealth, respect, honour – the perfect conclusion to an exemplary military career. But his young wife had been dismayed. She had wanted to return to Rome. She and her sister hated Britain. One of the reasons she had wanted so much to go back had been a man. She thought he did not know, but that man had been the reason for Marcus accepting this distant posting in the first place. He smiled grimly.

It was only a few months ago that she had changed her mind about Britain, and at once he had begun to suspect.

Feeling his gaze upon her Claudia looked up at him. Her smile was empty. Cold. A sham. He returned it and he saw doubt in those lovely grey eyes. But only for a moment. She thought she was safe. She thought she was clever. Let her think it. He would bide his time. The moment had to be right. Only her lover would know the real reason for his death, for Marcus could not afford to allow the scandal which would erupt if it became public. Private grief and anger must be contained, must be subservient to the public good. Any flame which might ignite the fire of revolt must be extinguished quietly. There must be no explosion of hate between the native tribes and Rome.

But in private … He breathed deeply, holding his anger in with iron control. In private, in secret, there would be revenge.

And his wife’s punishment, afterwards, would last a lifetime, and then through all eternity.

For a moment Kate had been tempted to make up a thermos of coffee and take it out to the dig to see how things were going but she changed her mind. She had had her morning off. This afternoon, or what was left of it, should be spent in serious work. Besides, Alison would, no doubt, not extend much welcome to any intruders in her private excavation. Perhaps later, Kate would stroll out to the beach for a little fresh air, but not now.

She had worked solidly for about half an hour when the telephone brought her back to the present. Taking off her glasses she went through to the kitchen to answer it.

‘Kate. Hi.’

‘Jon?’ The lift of her spirits, the excitement at the sound of his voice after so long was a purely Pavlovian response she told herself sternly, a conditioning, from living with him and loving him. ‘How did you get my number?’

‘From Bill.’ For a moment he sounded defensive, then meekly he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’

She smiled. ‘No. I don’t mind. Of course I don’t mind. How is the tour going?’

‘OK. Nearly over, thank Christ!’ He sounded tired and depressed. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Getting a lot of work done.’

‘Is the cottage nice?’

Was he asking out of politeness or did he really care? ‘Yes, it is as a matter of fact. Very nice.’

‘Bill says it’s very isolated.’

‘It is. It’s a good place to work.’ There was a lump in her throat. Suddenly she was missing him so badly it hurt.

‘Good. The money I owe you will soon be on its way, Kate. I’m sorry it’s been so long. Look, I fly to Boston tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll try and ring you from there.’ There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to tell her, but he couldn’t. For some reason he was tongue-tied. He loved her and he had blown it. ‘Take care.’

That was all. He had hung up. She stared at the receiver in her hand, feeling suddenly very, very lonely.

She was too unsettled to go back to work. After only a few minutes’ struggle with her conscience she stood up, threw down her specs and reached for her jacket.

The beach was deserted, side lit in the falling dusk by the last streaks of sunlight from a bruised sun, going down in a haze behind the estuary. Along the tide line the dunlin were busy, probing the sand with their bills. Far out to sea the mist was waiting, hovering on the horizon, for the dark. There was no sign of Alison.

Kate stood staring down into the excavation for a long time. The mess of tossed sand and mud, the tangled weed, the shells, all spelt out the intrusion of the sea into the girl’s vision of a Roman grave. There was no sign now of her meticulous digging and brushing of the sand. The vertical lines caused by the cutting edge of her spade had been replaced by a horizontal stratum, the sand intermingled now by long pale streaks of clay and broader wedges of black, the remnants of the three-thousand-year-old peat bog which had covered the river valley here when the sea was still two miles away. Looking down at the mess Kate shivered. She could see the earthenware, lying abandoned in the trench. Alison had not thought that worth collecting for some reason; nor had she gathered up the piece of metal lying on a tussock of uprooted grasses.

Slipping and sliding Kate scrambled down into the trench herself and picked it up with a frown. It was a dagger.

She turned it over in her hands, looking thoughtfully at the pitted corroded blade. It was ice cold to the touch.

Marcus

It was a whisper in her ear. A sigh on the wind. It was her imagination. Behind her, above the wood, the stars were emerging as the sky grew dark.

Scrambling out of the hollow she turned and began to walk swiftly back towards the cottage, the dagger still held in her hand, point down towards the ground, as though it were still potentially sharp. Which it was.

Indoors she slammed the door against the swiftly coming darkness, locked and bolted it and put the dagger down on the kitchen table, then she reached for the phone.

There was no answer from Redall Farmhouse.

She let it ring for several minutes, then at last she put the receiver down. If Alison wasn’t at the farmhouse, where was she? Thoughtfully she walked into the living room and switched on the table lamp. She had begun to draw the curtains when she glanced at the stove. She couldn’t believe it! It was out. And there were no logs in the box.

‘Damn!’ She stared down at it in dismay. She didn’t want to go out, even to the log shed. She did not want to open the front door again. Suddenly she was shivering and to her astonishment she found she was near to tears.

Idiot. Idiot woman. Missing Jon. Frightened of your own shadow! Come on Kennedy where’s your guts? What would sister Anne think of you if she could see you now? Firmly she put her jacket back on.

In the early dusk she could just see the nearest trees, their trunks glistening from the damp as she turned resolutely towards the shed, the empty box in her arms.

Alison’s tools lay in the doorway higgledy piggledy as though she had thrown them down in a great hurry. Kate groped in her pocket for her new torch and shone the beam into the darkness of the shed. It caught the trowel lying on the ground, just inside the door. She bit her lip. What had made the girl leave so suddenly that she had left possibly her best find yet lying in the grave, and the tools of her trade, at first so neatly put away, thrown haphazardly down?

Better not to think about that. She had probably grown bored on her own. With a half-smile Kate remembered the ghetto blaster. Swiftly she tidied up the tools, then she loaded the box with logs and kindling. Now that it was heavy she could not spare a hand for the torch. Reluctantly she switched it off and pushed it into her pocket. After the bright torchlight the garden seemed very dark, but after all, she could see quite clearly by the light streaming out of the kitchen window.

And the headlights.

She paused, easing the box higher into her arms, watching them coming down the track, jerking up and down as the Land Rover slithered through the woods across the clear grass area and jerked to a stop outside the front door. Invisible in the darkness Kate waited as the door opened and the driver climbed out. He went to the cottage door and pushed it open.

‘Hello?’

To her disappointment the voice was a deep baritone. Not Roger. Greg.

‘Hello.’ Kate had the satisfaction of seeing him jump violently as she came silently round the corner of the cottage, the box in her arms. ‘Good evening.’

‘Christ, you frightened me!’ He looked at her for a moment, then long-ingrained chivalry, drummed into him by his father over the years, prevailed over intentional boorishness as he saw the weight of her load. ‘Here. Let me take that.’

She handed over the box gratefully and preceded him into the cottage. ‘I’ve been in Colchester. The fire’s out, I’m afraid.’ She pushed the front door closed, making sure the latch had engaged, then she went through into the kitchen and drew the curtains, cutting off the cascade of light which shone out onto the grass. The garden sank into darkness.

‘I’ve come up to find Alison. Is she here?’

Kate swung round and stared at him. ‘You mean she’s still not at home? I’ve been to see if she was digging out there, but there’s no sign of her.’

They stared at one another, the hostility which crackled between them suddenly muted. Greg lowered the box to the ground. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’

Behind Kate the phone rang from the kitchen. She turned to answer it. Greg followed.

It was Roger. ‘Tell Greg she’s with a friend. Silly child didn’t think to leave a note. Apparently she went up through the woods to the Farnboroughs’. She’s spending the night with them.’

‘I knew she would be OK.’ Greg shook his head in exasperation when she told him. Then he leaned across to the counter and picked up the box of matches lying there. ‘Do you want me to light the fire for you while I’m here?’ His voice was curt, almost as if he were offering against his will.

‘Would you.’ She did not allow herself to sound too grateful. ‘The lighters are over there. I’ll get us a whisky.’